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Good evening, and again, my darlings, welcome to another round of CHOOSE YOUR OWN FUCKING ADVENTURE, where, true to its name, every decision is made for you and you realize that we’re all WORM FOOD.

While I’m sure that there are articles contained in this compendium that TICKLE YOUR G-SPOT infinitely more, I must say I’m truly honored that you would take the time to read the introduction. Now, unsheathe your sword from your ZIPPERED DENIM HOLSTER, mount your TRUSTY STEEDS, and adjust your FANNY PACKS, boys and girls, because this week’s adventure is:

ROLEPLAY TIME.

START HERE: The year is 1420. You find yourself in the Ye Olde Towne of Hempsteade, and have no idea how you got there. You look around—trees for miles. You get up and rummage through the satchel you brought with you. In it is: a vape pen, a lighter, several Nonsense Humor magazines, a big honking bag of weed, and a crumpled piece of paper.

If you decide to smooth out the paper, go to PARAGRAPH 2.

If you decide to smoke the weed, go to PARAGRAPH 4.

PARAGRAPH 2: You put the paper on the ground and smooth it out. Reading it over, you discover it is a MAP (now equipped!). You look up at the late afternoon sky (which doesn’t have any smog or lights in it because this is 1420 and that kind of bullshit isn’t even a concept at this point) and realize it is getting dark. You’re going to need to start a fire to keep yourself warm! Do you combine the LIGHTER and NONSENSE HUMOR MAGAZINES to start a fire?

If you decide that Nonsense Humor magazines are far too funny to be burned, even in a survival situation, go to PARAGRAPH 3.

If you decide to burn the magazines, go to PARAGRAPH 5.

PARAGRAPH 3: You don’t burn the magazines, instead using the fading daylight to read them. You laugh haughtily at the rubbish therein and go to sleep in the dark. You’re eaten by hungry bears that see you as the fragile, tasty woodland creature you are.

YOU FUCKING DIED, DUDE. GO BACK TO PARAGRAPH 2.

PARAGRAPH 4: You smoke that DANK KUSH and get higher than you’ve ever been in your life. Zoinks, Scoob, you didn’t think a strain of such phenomenal, wondrous weed could find its way to your titillated taste buds. It tastes like the best pottage your mother never made, because she spent most of her time finagling with the turkey foot seller at the market or fucking the local plague doctor, didn’t she, John? You pass out and are eaten by hungry bears that see you as the fragile, tasty woodland creature you are.

YOU FUCKING DIED, DUDE. GO BACK TO START.

PARAGRAPH 5: You burn the magazines with unmitigated joy. As they crackle and curl in the fire, you find that the smell of burning self-indulgent jokes is very comforting, and you fall asleep to the sound of Ye Olde police sirens. You wake up the next morning and continue on with your journey. Suddenly, out of the brush, a wild HOFCATappears. He stands in front of you in a way that vaguely reminds you of a Japanese pocket monster game, but offers no battle cry. Instead—“’Sup, player,” says the cat, “what’s good?”

If you decide to talk to the cat, go to PARAGRAPH 6.

If you decide to kill the cat, go to PARAGRAPH 7.

PARAGRAPH 6: “Um, hi,” you reply tentatively. “You must be a hofcat.” The cat approaches you and hops gracefully onto your shoulder. “That I am. Do you know where you are, traveller?” “No,” you confess. The cat smiles, or would if cats could do that, and continues. “Why, you’re at the HOFSTRA CASTLE, home to the fiercest beasts and rarest treasures.” You stare about in wonder before your eyes fall on blue sign directly to your left. Hofstra Castle, home to the fiercest beasts and rarest treasures. You step onto the cobblestone path and, as if on cue, several solidly-built, well-endowed knights cross your path. “Oh!” you exclaim, startled, and take a step backwards. One of the knights notices you. “Why, hello traveller!” He looks you up and down before slapping a gloved hand onto his firm, tasty chest. “I am Sir Brodius of Dudeshire. My compatriots and I are off for an evening of cavorting and gallivanting at the Ye Olde McHebe’s. Care you to join us, fellow countryman?”

PARAGRAPH 8: You shake your head. “I’m sorry, Mister Brodius, but I’m on a quest,” you reply. The knight nods and adjusts his chain mail. “Ah, I understand, young man slash woman. We will think of you, brave traveler, in the midst of our rollicking. Come, gents,” he says to his fellow knights, “let this night be fucking lit!” The knights cheer and like a flash they’re gone, leaving a cloud of Axe™ Body Spray in their wake. You continue on until you come to a fork in the road. On the LEFT, the path is dirty, littered with empty potion bottles and horse shit. It does not seem to end. On the RIGHT, much of the same: discarded bowls of Freshen’s stew and human shit, yet it appears to end at a derelict building. Which path do you take?

If you decide to take the path on the LEFT, go to PARAGRAPH 9.

If you decide to take the path on the RIGHT, go to PARAGRAPH 10.

PARAGRAPH 9: Completely lost, you decide to take the path on the left. The trees look menacing above you, and your little Hofcat looks around cautiously. “Brave knight, I really think you should turn back,” he says, but you are set on going forward for some reason. After a while, crumpled on the sides of the path, are the SKELETONS OF PEASANTS PAST. You think you see one blink its empty eyeholes. Dread bubbles up in your stomach like Mother’s three week-old mashed peas, and you wish the Black Death had just killed you when it had the chance. Suddenly, a skeleton steps in front of you: he is wearing a tattered Attack on Titan cosplay and is clutching a Nerf gun. He aims it at your head and fires.

“Long live Hofstra versus Zombies.”

YOU FUCKING DIED, DUDE. GO BACK TO PARAGRAPH 8.

PARAGRAPH 10: You decide to follow the MAP you have in your satchel (remember that shit? You didn’t think I would bring that up again, did you?) and take the path on the right. A chilled wind blows through your hair and shakes you to your core. After walking along the dirty path, you approach the broken-down building. Scanning the façade carefully, you see it is a SBARRO’S PIZZA. The Hofcat on your shoulder hisses. “Brave knight,” he protests, “this does not feel right!” Ignoring your tiny compadre, you continue on. You kick down the splintery door, and at first, nothing seems out of the ordinary: chairs scattered about, with a lonely stand in the centre of the room. The trays are full of Sbarro’s food, still looking edible. Surrounding the stand are skeletons in various pained-looking positions, which are themselves surrounded by human fecal matter. Hofstra shits. Poor bastards. There’s a loud whoosh, and as you turn, the door behind you slams.

YOU ARE TRAPPED. What do you do?

If you decide to look around, go to PARAGRAPH 11.

If you decide to give up and live on Sbarro’s forever, go to the PUSSY ENDING.

PARAGRAPH 11: You look around. Carefully avoiding the stinky dead Hofstra shit people (because those jokes never die), you glance around the moldy walls in the hopes of finding a way out. Suddenly, you spot a LEVER on the wall. Deciding that well, nothing matters and Death is coming, you pull it, and a part of the wall slides back to reveal and entrance to a CAVE. Your Hofcat is shaking now. You turn and, fearing what lurks ahead, take a SWORD from a gross poop skeleton (now in Items!). Carefully, you enter the cave, because you didn’t take the pussy ending so that means you’re a tough guy, aren’t you? Descending a set of stone steps, you find yourself surrounded by THE BUBBLING PITS OF HOT SMELLY PIZZA GREASE. Careful! One touch and you’re dead: keep moving! You trek on, past more skeletons, pieces of discarded armor and cigarette butts. You turn a corner, and…

Before you, nestled amongst the pits of grease and leftover pizza crusts, is the dragon. He opens one eye. What do you do?

If you decide to fight the dragon, go to the BATTLE.

If you decide to run away, go to the PUSSY ENDING.

BATTLE: The dragon awakens, and boy, is it pissed. You equip your SWORD and hold it out menacingly, before it occurs to you that you have no idea how to use a sword. The dragon rises to its full height and, with a mighty roar, releases a cloud of Froot Loops™ flavored vape smoke, right in your face. You cough: dude, not cool. The dragon is moving slow. You’re certain you could kill it if not for the fucking smoke everywhere. It just keeps…breathing on you. Trying to find a patch of clean air, you spot scales and swing blindly. The dragon lets out a roar of pain, and you think you might have actually damaged that bad boy. The air starts to clear, and you swing again and again. With a final cry, the dragon’s head tumbles to the floor. But your trial is not done, brave homie. Underneath the dragon’s head is none other than RENOWNED CHEF, BOBBY FLAY. You now have to, quite literally, beat Bobby Flay, just likeon his new show, Beat Bobby Flay, hosted by chef Bobby Flay,airing only on Food Network Thursdays at 10, after Food: Fact or Fiction with Michael McKean. This is worse than the dragon. You look around in a panic for something to use to defeat him with, but all you find is a PRE-MADE SBARRO PIZZA CRUST and a CHAMBER POT. He laughs in your face. Do you admit defeat?

If you decide that Bobby Flay is a fucking piece of human garbage that deserves to lose in his own dungeon, go to the FINAL BOSS.

If you decide to admit defeat, go to the PUSSY ENDING.

FINAL BOSS: By combing the PRE-MADE SBARRO’S PIZZA CRUST and the CHAMBER POT, you are able to create SBARRO’S PIZZA! Bobby Flay, shocked that you were able to so accurately make the best pizza on the island, uses the dragon’s head and creates DRAGON FLAMBÉ! He laughs at you again, the smug bastard, and you stab him in the chest.

Bobby Flay is defeated! You eat the Sbarro’s Pizza and rejoice!

THE END. NICE GOING, MY DUDE.

PUSSY ENDING: Really? You’re just gonna give up just like that? What the fuck? Look around! Explore, adventure—fight! That’s what the point of this fucking thing is! Why do you think I spent days writing this? So that you could give up? Fuck no!

What? You still wanna give up? Fine. I hope you’re happy not doing anything fun ever, you piece of shit. Go back to your Tumblr blog.

THE END. FUCK YOU.

DOPE ENDING: You nod firmly and follow close behind the knight. He leads you down the street to a dirty building (even though really, in retrospect, all buildings in 1420 were fucking filthy, but that’s putting the cart before the horse). The tacked up wooden sign on the door reads: “Ye Olde McHebe’s. Two shots $38.” You hear the thudding of bass inside, and enter to find swarms of underage peasants, grinding up against each other like they’re trying to fuse together. “Hallowéd be the name of McHebe’s!” one shouts, clearly having imbibed copious amounts of mead. The wasted young sir staggers out of the pub, and you want to get that crunk yourself. You raise a Ye Olde shot glass and scream to the heavens:

“I’m ready to get fucked up! Who wants to blow me?”

THE END, HOMIE. YOU’RE CLEARLY A LOVER OF ALL THINGS FUN; YOUR MOM WOULD BE PROUD.

In light of Hofstra’s continued fear of things it doesn’t understand, a group of students has organized themselves to protest the University’s recent ban on Hoverboards. Nearly two hundred students, all male, wearing sweatpants and muscle shirts, assembled early this winter morning outside the student center with picket signs and catchy slogans.

“I’m not afraid of no cold!” Daniel “The Man” Abrams said while taking a drag off of his “My Dad Paid in Full”-flavored vape. “I’m out here for the cause!”

“Yeeeey yeeeyy!” His fellow protestors echoed, patting each other viciously on their smooth, prominent muscles. Their hands then collectively trailed down each other’s well-worked backs, tracing the curves of their spines down to nice, squat-formed, bouncy buttocks. The group then laughed their momentary homoeroticism off as a joke, because jokes about straight guys pretending to be attracted to each other are still funny in 2016.

“We earned these Hoverboards fair and square!” shouts a member of Hofstra’s basketball team, who received their team budget in cash and spent what would amount to hundreds of dollars on the infamous handless segways. “Hofstra is banning the future!”

The Hoverboard ban comes after an intense onslaught of Hoverboard-related injuries across campus, but according to reports the injuries aren’t the only reason for the prohibition.

“Let me ask you something,” the Dean of Students said in a press conference this morning. “Have you noticed anything different at Hofstra lately? Trails of vape smoke drifting through south campus? Waiting lines in the gym’s weight room at all the machines except the leg press? An increase of ridiculous muscle cars roaring through parking lots late at night? These things have always been here, these individuals have always been among us but never in the numbers we’re seeing now. Hofstra is experiencing record amounts of douchebaggery, and it’s high time we put an end to it if we want to continue begging America’s brightest to start thinking of us as their backup school. This ban is one step forward, and I don’t wanna hear any of you fuckers pretending you wouldn’t have done the same goddamn thing.”

“I think the Dean’s comments were a little harsh,” said Sean “Chicken Legs” Williams. “I know I’m gonna get shit for this but like, maybe she’s just on her period? My girlfriend is on hers right now and she won’t even let me try butt-stuff.”

At press time the group protest immediately dissolved to catcall the women’s basketball team on their way to just get some fucking breakfast.

By Zachary Johnson
If elected president by a large percentage of the population who I duped with my clever campaign ads, my first promise to the American people is that I will end all memes. For good.

You might think I’m crazy. I’ve heard that before. I’ve been called crazy my whole life. By everyone. Parents, teachers, lawyers, doctors, the homeless man I snatched up with the grill of my car while on a drunk cruise hopelessly pondering what to do with my meaningless existence. But I learned at a young age that if you can’t join them, beat them.

As the 45th president of the United States of America, I will personally end all memes forever. How do you like that, Jackson Samuels? Am I crazy now? I bet you’re gonna miss ironically posting all of those starter pack memes when I become president. Maybe it’ll make you feel bad enough about tripping me on the playground as a small child. What goes around comes around, buddy!

When I become president, nobody will think that I’m crazy. Even the homeless man, permanently stuck in the grill of my Lexus, will stop shouting at me. Maybe these sons of bitches will start to show me some respect when I take the highest office in the land by running an aggressive campaign fuelled by my own shortcomings and end all memes, forever.

It’s not as if I don’t have the qualifications for this job. I’ve shown that I can achieve goals. In 2011, I started a petition to end global warming, by turning off my lights for one hour each day. It was easy to achieve because I live in perpetual darkness, surrounded only by my loneliness and lack of empathy for other human beings, fostered by a harsh experience with mob mentality at a young age and the lack of an effective support system. I made it through the whole year, and I saved so much energy. Maybe now Obama can get off my back about it, thanks.

Speaking of Obama, I’m going to take his goddamn job. I will not be the second black president, but I will be the first president to ever take a stance on memes. I will ascend to the ivory throne, draped in the tri-color scheme of this grand nation, and decree that memes be abolished forever more. Nobody will think that I am crazy then, because I will be a politician, and no matter how far I go it’s not very likely that I’ll ever be Hitler anyways. Hitler is the only bad guy we can compare bad politicians to, and I don’t even look like him, so I am already less susceptible to campaign attacks than Hilary Clinton.

Then, I’m going to take it one more step further, and kick everyone while they’re down. Not only do I promise to end all memes forever, but I solemnly swear that I will end Lorde’s career, and make her work at Chipotle. That’s right. Goodbye Lorde and hello Ella Marija Lani Yelich-O’Connor serving me my fucking barbacoa. No, I don’t want to try the tofu shit. Sing me “Royals” while you wrap my burrito, and I can tell you that I never enjoyed that song, because I am the Queen Bee, and I also never really understood whether you were being ironic or not.

I am not fucking crazy, and I will prove it by being elected. I do not need your vote, because I have better votes. I know that my campaign message is something that will resonate with the people of the United States of America. I know that my finger is firmly pressed upon the cultural pulse. Elect me president, and I will eradicate memes from this earth like the scourge that they are. I fear what I do not understand.

Vote for me because at the very least I am probably better than Donald Trump.

I had nothing to be nervous about. As a veteran student journalist,I’d long understood the value of confidence and composure. For an assignment of this magnitude, though, I’d need as much of both as I could muster. Despite all I knew about proper journalism, I had long been relegated to the most benign and obvious assignments. “SGA to Vote: ‘Is Smoking Weed a Sin?’” was by far my biggest story last semester, notable still among my journalistic peers for my concise yet biting closing sentiments, “Christ does anybody even read this does anybody even read this shit you fucking swine yo ufucking shitbeastsss.” I’ll admit it was a brash decision, and perhaps at a different school it would have meant a swift kiss of death for my young career; instead, they made me editor-in-chief, allowing me to assign myself the best stories and fuck anybody I want.

It’s true we had an idea that something like this was due to happen soon enough; we’d received vague-if-teasing e-mails notifying us of a “New Era,” a “Master Plan,” and, seemingly unrelated , a string of off-campus assaults attributed to somebody named H O T P O P E Y E S B I S C U I T S. Hell, Hofstra had been attempting publicity stunts fairly regularly long before any of us thought we’d end up here; sure, we all remember the TLC Reunion fiasco of Fall Fest ’14 (only two of them bothered to show up), but what about the shocking Spring Fest ’09 that saw SuperChef Bobby Flay eat his own throw up? What about the night shuttle that doubled as aPlanned Parenthood clinic? (Thanks Steve) They had all failed to put us on the map in any significant way, and I suppose that by now it was pretty obvious we needed something big if we wanted the name-recognition of a Penn State or Virginia Tech. Their plan: Bring award-winning father and food eater Guy Fieri to campus to put some of our top-flight eateries on an episode of his seminal investigative series Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives. My plan: turn this into the biggest story Hofstra had ever seen.

We were scheduled to meet upon his arrival to campus, if only for a chance to ask preliminary questions before thecrush of fanboys came flocking, tips a-frosted. I gripped the inside of my pockets like the crossbars of a roaring coaster, a buoyant anxiety growing inside me as if every step towards our meeting point furthered my crawl over the apex of Flavor Town Mountain. Something inside me knew already that soon my life would never be the same. I crossed the street towards the Student Center a nervous wreck of potential questions, thinking still of how I would draw the greater truth from such a complex journalistic muse. Then it hit me. A car; a sickly-cum colored Honda knocked my bitch ass down like nothin’, drawing blood from a scrape on my knee and a some pee from my penis. (Perhaps also some brain trauma because, well, letters and numbers scream at me pretty relentlessly.But that’s besides the point).

My ears were still ringing when the unholy smell of Pulled Pork Vape engulfed me. A hand reached towards me through the hell cloud, the spray-tanned flesh clump bearing a faded reminder of once-flaming knuckle tats inscribed: “FOOD”. It was Him.

“Shit brother, I can’t afford another case. Please man, you don’t need to go to a hospital do you? Do you know who I am? I’m fucking famous! I have money! Please, take my money. I have $38 dollars right here. I have some black and milds in my car. I can probably get like three more black and milds from my cameraman. Oh god I can’t believe this fucking happened again.”

“Mr. Fieri,” I interrupted, “I can’t take your money or your delicious treats, I’m the one covering your visit. I’m supposed to be meeting you for an interview right now. Please stop blowing that Pulled Pork Vapor on my wounds. I am begging you to stop doing that to me.”

“Oh shit, the student-journalist. Yeah, uh, my publicist said that would be a really bad idea for me right now. I mean, besides the fact that I just hit you with my car, I’ve also got a lot of shit working its way through the legal system currently that may ban me from campuses altogether.”

“Oh wow, well I—”

“And I mean, I can’t even do a full episode here. They’ve got me doing an online-exclusive thing right now, which we’ll probably scrap altogether. They’re making me drive my car from home, I don’t even get anything cool! I can’t even believe somebody let me put myself in this situation. I killed like three cats too, I just ran them right the fuckover. I shouldn’t be telling you this. What am I doing? Do you have any Xanax? Any shit at all? Please bro.”

“Look Mr. Fieri, this is my career we’re talking about. This event—you—this is a big deal for this school and for me. This is going to help me make a name for myself. Don’t you remember that struggle for recognition, for validation in doing what you love? I could be the next Guy Fieri, and you could help pass the torch! Don’t you see that?”

He paused and backed away suddenly, exhaling some additional smokehouse vapor from his ears and from behind his cool sunglasses.

“Kid, I’m sorry, but my career still has twenty-plus years. This is only the beginning for me. Hell, you probably think I’m what, 35? 38? Not even close. But that’s just the power of money my friend. Now stay away from me.”

With that, he lowered his powerful frame into what smelled like an outhouse made of kielbasa, and drove away as dangerously fast as he had come. I was stung, devastated the way so many were when Guy Fieri’s S’mores Indoors Dessert Pizzas turned out to be full of hot peppers and very little else. I’d been shunned by the one man who could surely change my life, pushed away by the master of my craft. He was right though; this business isn’t built on friendship. If he wouldn’t agree to help my story, well, maybe I didn’t need his permission.

Disallowed from my press privileges, I took a series of insignificant notes on Guy’s reactions from a distance. Impassioned howls of “Dang brother!” and “Wowza” filled the Sbarro kitchen for some time before he finally wrung out a slice of pepperoni pizza like an old dish rag, streamlining its orange grease directly into his face holes. He wiped his bristled goatee and looked in for the money shot: “That’s the kind of nectar we love, here on Triple D.”

My time was coming, and I knew it; I’d already watched Guy eat every kind of Sbarro slice, every type of sushi, a steak sandwich, and three different kinds of preservative plastic wrap. They were going to have all the necessary footage soon, and my story was not yet complete. I moved through the crowd with swift determination—my mind tuned to chaos, my heart to destiny. Our eyes met across the Sbarro counter and he stepped forward only to shake his head in silence .

“Hey Guy,” I shouted, confident that I was about to say something really cool. “Make this gun bullets a snack for you!” I was wrong. But it didn’t matter; I had just shot doting husband and affable neighbor Guy Fieri four times in the chest with a handgun I was able to legally purchase. I don’t know if I killed him, I don’t even know what the full extent of my charges are yet. I only know what the last words he said to me were, spat between coughs of blood and the regurgitation of some garlic bread. “I only have…this to say…the liberals were right. We still need stricter gun control. This all could have been prevented.”

So as you can see, President Obama, I’m writing this letter to you as a sort of olive branch. I’ve scratched your back, and your front, and your sides, and your grey little head. I fed the public the perfect appetizer of heartbreak with an entree of fear. I turned a national icon into a national tragedy, a bleeding heart mouth piece narrating the story of a nation in distress. I’m now isolated in a maximum security prison, mostly because I keep spitting on my fingers and smelling them. Nobody wants to be my friend. So now it’s time for you to help me. Pardon me of these charges, let me go back to the school I put on the map and do what I deserve to do. Help me tell the stories that need to be told. And please, Mr. President, bring back the Hofstra football team. The Master Plan must continue. My work is not done.

It’s been a minute since Hofstra Vs. Zombies has made the news for another tragic incident. An innocent bystander getting shot between the eyes, forcing them to drop their books, papers, hookah pen, and consequently their Hofstra pride, is nothing new. “Fucking shit-balls!” exclaims one Hofstra student we reached for comment, rubbing the Velcro out of his eye, “Seein’ as those fellas must be nice guys, they should kindly crawl back into the friendzone they so unjustly belong in.” However, this time the stakes have been raised—and I’m not talking about your daddy’s rib-eye. Earlier today, a senior citizen was shot and killed making their merry way over to the best pizza on the island.

“Bitch was so old, she may as well have been the walking dead,” explains the charismatic, dangerous and probable virgin Malcom “xxx_ShadowDragon_xxx” (as he insisted we called him). “I just bought this beauty at a K-Mart in East Garden City. There was no test or background check, well, aside from the Q-T cashier checking me out!” Yes, he indeed wrote out “Q” and “T” in the air with his damp finger.

Is it really this simple to purchase a “beauty” of that magnitude with little to no restrictions by our federal government? Does East Garden City even have a local government? We consulted local gun expert Mike Hunt and even local-er expert Xavier “No Chill” Johnson.

“Listen. The fact of the…the fact of the…the matter at hand here is the fact that liberals can eat my dick. I repeat, liberals can eat my dick. What was I talking about? Right—as I was saying, my ass is so clenched that I lost all feeling in my legs about thirty seconds ago. Please help me.” Mr. Hunt does drive a compelling point. Nerf guns don’t kill people, but dying of secondhand embarrassment at the fact that you manually carved a radioactive symbol onto a forty dollar nerf gun does. I bet that “instrument” isn’t even fucking radioactive. Fuck.

Mr. Johnson, however, also provides some pretty decent feedback. “So are you buying any weed or what?”

My homie, “No Chill” states the obvious in implying that guns need to be regulated when there is, technically speaking, a school shooting every time this organization meets. Uh-oh…what’s this? Breaking news? It appears we are having more action on the scene than a hot pocket in a lean cuisine. A devilishly dapper debonair appears before us, cheeto dust swirling in a tornado of desperation and class. Donning an emerald cloak, shrouding his tragic past, he speaks. “Good day to thee, my fine gentlesirs.” With this mere phrase our news team is bewitched as our undergarments smash the floor with unquenchable lust.

“You see, ‘tis not the size of the gun that is important; rather, it is the way in which you pwn noobs-er..peasants with said gun. Or so my girlfriend—Girlfriends! tell me.” Pulling me in by my tie, he whispers, “But it sure does help if you have a Desert Falcon Blaster 69xxx laser-mounted, special edition, Mountain Dew fueled-euphoria enducing, triple-action meat beater-killswitch engage-cockgrinder with auto-erotic asphyxia controls and a dignity depletion rate of 923 dates per picosecond.” Noticing Edith the—now terrified—intern, he tipped his authentic Indiana Jones replica headpiece and uttered “Farewell, fair maiden. Until we meet in the land of sunlight” and vanished, leaving nothing behind but the faint odor of Axe Bodywash and starch.

We don’t mean to harass people who are happy doing what they do. As a matter of fact, more power to them for being less cynical and douchey than our team of accountants (who are also probably armed). All we are saying is that—shit! You have an office! An OFFICE. You guys always seem so happy! It’s disgusting. Do you guys even know how to roll your eyes? It is disgusting. We are not bitter. Please give us our office back.

When the Basketball team used their allocated budget (which they received in cash) to buy some Hoverboards from a questionable source (read more about this in the Chronicle), we here at Nonsense couldn’t resist the temptation of a juicy story. We asked our Editors-in-Chief what they thought about the issue. Here’s what they had to say:

Point

When in the course of human events it becomes necessary to purchase a hoverboard, a man should, as is his constitutional right, utilize the funds allocated to him by his student government. However, when the flaws in the system grow to such a size that they interfere with the facility of obtaining such monies, students should take it upon themselves to subvert the system in hopes of a larger change. Therefore, the matter of the minor controversy enmiring the most honourable basket-ball team of Hofstra University is merely a bellwether for the general student populace’s current mindset towards their own government.

The collegiate governing body at Hofstra is a pillar of oppression bearing down upon we, the innocent taxpaying students. Grievances upon grievances we have writ in great painstaking detail, and with such passion have we sent these letters unto our senators, only to have these stone-hearted judges cast them aside without empathy. In such ways we have been displaced from our homes and offices, taxed unfairly, and largely denied access to our own wealth which should be rightly allocated to each student organization, in concordance with the stipulations of our compulsory student activities fee. In addition to this, we daily suffer the insulting misfortune of being ruled by a class comprised almost solely of children dressed in the clothes of grown men.

In defiance of such bureaucratic absurdity, the acquisition of these hoverboards, hereafter known as The Greate Purchase of Two Thousand and Fifteen, stands forthright. Such organizations who are privileged enough to recieve their allocations in form of liquid monies should not restrict themselves to purchases which could also be easily completed within the constraints of the system. Counterintuitive though it may seem, flaunting these loopholes and work-arounds brings higher visibility to the struggle of the proletariat in such a dramatic fashion that the issue can no longer be ignored.

As thanks for this demonstration of solidarity this author further justifies The Greate Purchase by pointing out that these athletes are representative of the student body not only by their political actions but by the more traditional standard of athletic prowess, and thusly, that their limbs should not be troubled by the weariness of the layman’s primary mode of transportation. Foregoing walking, their muscles, sinews, and other assorted humours are kept in perfect condition, free of strain or stress from unnecessary use. These sinewy weapons are thereby reserved only for the occasion of the honorable sport basket-ball, which, in the aftermath of our foot-ball team’s great defeat (by the hand of this same institution against which we currently fight), is our only means of procuring glory and honor.

Rightful as it is for a student to take claim of their their constitutional rights, so should these giants glide among us; with every passing day hovering closer and closer to revolution.

-Heather Levinsky, co-Editor-in-Chief of Nonsense, co-signer of the Declaration of Independence, writing instructor to Jonathan Swift

Counterpoint

Look guys, we all know that global warming isn’t real. But let’s just stop for a second and think about the environment.

I know, I know. I know what you’re thinking. “Zach, we can’t think about the environment, when has the environment ever thought about us?” And you’re right, dear citizen, you’re right. But let’s just ponder this for one second: How will these Hoverboards impact the environment?

Lets take a moment here to look at the word “Hoverboard”. You’ll notice it has an “H” in it. What word also contains the letter ‘H’?

Hell.

Do we want our environment to look like hell? I come from a strong, grassroots family line of people who were not afraid to go outside, and get their hands dirty. Mow the lawn. Mulch the plants. Extend our property line one inch at a time. Make the yard look nice and honour our Lord and Creator! My gran’ pappy and my dear old Mimaw Lacey would never want me to endorse something, willingly, that would make our Savior’s beautiful earth look like hell!

Furthermore, we haven’t yet thought about the emissions of these hoverboards. We know they’re fueled by gasoline, straight outta the Hofstra Oil Wells. Do we have any idea what that could do to this beautiful land?

Hofstra is an Arbyritto afterall isn’t it? The thing with the plants? Imagine living in your Penthouse Sky Suite in one of the newly renovated Hofstra Towers, looking out at the beautiful, smog-filled Long Island sky, and seeing it obscured by vape clouds and Hoverboard fumes!

This is why we need change! And not just any change either. I’ve got a real solution! My company, The Big Nice Smiley Face Corporation, is about to launch our new Green™ Hoverboard, complete with an economic, environment friendly, grass-fed, buzzword filter. The Green™ Hoverboard only runs off of green friendly resources, like Clean Coal and Farmer Pete’s 100% Organic Natural Gas™.

Stop the pollution, stop the waste! Invest in a Green™ Hoverboard, post-haste! (Vote For Me in 2020!)